


A Way Out

by Alacosia



Series: Collections of the Illusionist [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Argonians (Elder Scrolls), Existentialism, M/M, Magic, Paranormal, illusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alacosia/pseuds/Alacosia
Summary: Alacosia gets abducted by a decaying man whose only task is to have the Illusionist gaze into a painting of the night sky for an extended period of time. Upon leaving Alacosia alone, the painting begins to have a mind of its own...
Series: Collections of the Illusionist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861480
Collections: The Elder Scrolls





	A Way Out

The rumbling sound of thunder lulled me into consciousness. Lazily, my eyes opened to take in the environment. My wrists felt sore, an abrasive feeling as they rotated around an unfamiliar tightness. I leaned forward, and my wrists hit the same wooden column that my head rested against. I gasped sharply then, understanding the situation I was currently in.

A few feet away sat a candle. Its light being the only one exposing the pitch-black room. Its flame small, only letting me see myself and not much else. I looked up, seeing the now familiar thick wooden column extend into the darkness. It was easy to put together what I was tied to, but not why. My breath became bated as my chest tightened. I squinted into the darkness until dark circles made themselves known. I saw, just for a moment, something in the void shift. If it weren’t for the sound, I would’ve second guessed my sight entirely.

It was a quiet shuffle, something sliding against the stone floor, then the sound of flesh hitting the same stone. Whatever it was, it was slightly blacker than the rest of the abyss surrounding it, and the sounds were coming closer. I drew the conclusion that this must be my captor coming and gulped down nervously as he or she came closer to the candlelight.

Slowly, a pale white orb showed itself in the claustrophobic light. An inhale followed as it moved up, rotating to reveal it was the top of a cranium. My eyes focused on the tiny hairs that adorned it, each single strand far apart and brittle. With a sharp gasp from the creature he laid his face bare against the candlelight.

“Shit!” I called out to the darkness, my instincts forcing me to jump and squirm in my binds. My breath quickly turned labored as I looked into the horrifying gaze of an undead looking man. I first noticed his eyes, the pupils of which would randomly split and reform, the muddy iris’s surrounding whatever ovule shape the pupils made. Their movement was slow, almost captivating, reminding me of an organic kaleidoscope. His teeth were like the keys of a piano, a very ancient one at that. Large patches of charcoal, resembling burnt steak, covered his sunken cheeks; a clear sign of necrosis. He exhaled onto my face, the smell of decayed flesh hitting so sudden, I barely had time to compose myself before my body started to retch and heave.

The decayed man, as if caring for my health, jumped back into the darkness with a gasp. His last expression seemed to be one of worry. After a few moments, I could hear the same awkward movements in the darkness. A slap of flesh against stone, then a slide to the left, then a couple to the right. With a snapping sound, more candles were lit, and I was able to see the full extent of what I assumed to be my cell. Grey stone walls, grey stone floor, some packed straw away from the candles, and another support column on the other side of the rectangular room.

In the less suffocating light, the man revealed his entire self. Adorned in a withered pall, his arms and legs matched his cheeks with their state of decay. One foot was torn at the ankle, the entire thing resting on its side behind the man as carelessly as some new farmhand would drag along a sack of potatoes across the ground. Strings of tendons and flesh still connected the ankle to the foot, but eventually it was sure to fall off. As a result of one leg being useful and the other being less so, the undead man leaned against a cane of twisted dark wood.

“W-what the hell are you?” My naïve voice echoed in the empty cell.

“Mmm,” his guttural voice hummed, clear evidence his insides were as damaged as his outside, “A messenger!” the raspy man boomed, “I know of nothing else!” He then outstretched his arms wide as a child does in celebration.

“But!” he inhaled, the sound of phlegm stuck in his throat, “I do know who YOU are!” He placed both of his hands on his cane, tilting his head low and grinning down at me.

“How do you know me?” I questioned, my voice still shaking.

“Do not feel such worry, my argonian friend!” he dodged, sliding his less useful foot forward, “First was lost, now is found! In your binds, safe and sound!” he hummed to me as his pupils still slowly danced in their sockets.

“I don’t really feel safe or sound here, just tell me what you want from me.” my head moved around, attempting to seek escape. It was futile of course, but I understood the alternative could always be worse.

He rolled his luring eyes, still grinning, “Yes, yes, why not keep things short, hm?” His jaw then suddenly went slack. As it was slowly dragged down by gravity, I could see his tongue was bruised in some spots, his gum blackened in some areas. Why he wanted to show off this I had no idea. His unnatural eyes stared past me for a time.

“H-hello?” I stared at his glazed over eyes, the shifting pupils causing my own stomach to do the same.

“The painting, yes!” he exclaimed, making my body jump up sharply. He quickly turned around and exited through the only doorway in the room. Unfortunately, it was surrounded in darkness still, and as his hunched shoulders, covered in the dusty pall, were swallowed up by that darkness, I pondered if his eyes allowed him to see in the absence of light.

The shuffling and tapping echoed from the other room, bouncing off the stone walls, floor, and ceiling rather easily. When I closed my eyes, I could also hear some of the creature’s raspy grunting. Through the doorway he came back through to the dimly candlelit room. His arms were shaking, one clutching his cane tightly, the other struggling to keep its grip on the golden frame of some piece of artwork. I stayed quiet and watched his struggle, hearing his heavy breaths grow in volume. Soon he was back where he was, and moved the painting in front of him, the back of the canvas leaning against his cane.

His wet breathing slowed, as did my own as I gazed into the painting. Its frame was golden, the metal shaped into a floral pattern surrounding the rectangular piece. The canvas was of the night sky on a clear night. There was no ground to be seen, just the galaxy’s arm stretched horizontally. To its north and south were other stars, varying in both color and size. Green and blue aurora borealis veiled the stars, wavering teasingly as if to beckon the onlooker closer. It was almost a perfect rendition of the actual sky, but a red nebula to the left of the bright line of stars contrasted reality. Its stark crimson brightness drew my eyes in. Even for someone who doesn’t think much of the night sky, I could tell that its presence was otherworldly. Even more peculiar, however, was the how the stars pulsed and twinkled. My neck craned forward in disbelief, but alas the stars were indeed imbued with life.

Peering up I was met with the dead man’s same grin.

“A painting that moves.” I stated with curiosity, “Where did you find such a thing?”

“You needn’t worry about that. No, your job is to just stare into the painting without going mad. Simple enough, hm?” He slumped forward after declaring my task, dragging the painting back with him to the pile of packed straw. He then picked up his cane and stabbed it through the straw, still leaning on the cane with most of his weight before shifting back to me. He then limped back, bringing the straw with him this time.

“I don’t have all day to watch over you, illusionist. So, I trust by the days end you’ll either be foaming at the mouth dead or alive and enlightened. I’m sure you’ll turn out the latter if rumors of you are true.” Resting the artwork against the straw, the decayed man turned to leave. Confused by his statement, but not enough to ask him what he meant, I watched as he slowly slumped away.

“A painting that makes one go mad...” I told the stars with a sigh before I started to stare into them. They continued to pulse and twinkle all the same. After a few moments of looking into them, a low droning hum found its way inside my mind. I wanted to turn and look for a source of the sound, but something stronger than my will compelled me not. I had somehow recognized and understood the source as soon as it started. The moment my mind settled on the answer, the easier it was to focus on the stars. I found, after a few moments, that the stars weren’t randomly flickering. Each small group had their own pattern. Each individual cluster twinkled at its own rhythm much like a tavern song. Some were livelier than others, but they all had the same length. Counting the flickers to sixteen would start the patterns at their beginning. I had one small blip of questioning then, of how I came to know this information after just a few minutes of staring. I hadn’t been with the stars for that long, but the decayed man did say the painting tended to make those who stared at it mad. Was that beginning now? Does recognizing the stars rhythms incite the eventual, unstoppable madness? The questions lingered in my mind for mere seconds, before the thoughts themselves buzzed and distorted, hissing softly before receding into nothingness. A breeze ran across the scales on my neck, soliciting an unnatural shiver. The red nebula off to the side was slowly growing this whole time. The stars seemed indifferent to its growing mass, but my heart compelled me to be fearful of its approach.

It was when I become lost in the nebula’s amorphic shape that a sense of floating surrounded my being. My tight wrists suddenly went limp, my shoulders relaxed, and I was allowed to finally turn my torso to see behind me. What I saw made my stomach turn to lead.

A sea of encompassing darkness, the void encroaching on all sides, shook me to my very core. I could see nothing, even seeing more when I closed my eyes than when I opened them. I wanted to scream to fight off its oppressiveness, but its engulfing omnipotence stole my voice away from me. There was no stone any longer, and I realized the painting had me firmly caught within its trap. Rather than completely lose myself in what lie behind me, I chose instead to turn back forward and continue to stare at the familiar tapestry of stars that now filled my entire vision.

My breathing eased as soon as I turned around, the calming brightness of the stars soothed the weight I had felt before. The droning hum still continued to buzz inside my mind, determined in its mission to bore its way from my most apparent thoughts and into my suppressed consciousness. I cared not, however, where it went, for I was suddenly distracted by a soft pressure that was applied to my back. One that pushed me gently forward and closer to the red nebula. The force had turned me so that the nebula was now in the center of my vision. With a sense of relaxed paralysis, I could do nothing to move even an inch on my own. I was forced to stare into the red nebula and became convinced that its only purpose was to aid in my end.

Even though my breathing had slowed, my heart had continued to race. I could do nothing but stare as I was pushed further and further. The crimson nebula started to fill more and more of my sight, consuming my thoughts along with it. Curiosity sought to stave off the expanding fear by asking what lie within the nebula. Demons? The Gods themselves? Nothing? Was I cursed to be stuck here for the rest of eternity? Did I gaze too long, and this is my punishment? My breathing quickened as I thought of death out in this vast, silent realm, with nothing but my own thoughts to slowly degrade my mental state of mind. Curiosity ended up only adding to my fear, a bad decision on my part. I had to find something, anything to focus on that wasn’t the damn red nebula.

To each side of me, I noticed small stars flittering past me. Some no larger than a quill’s point, others the size of a coin. The smaller the stars were, the faster they passed my body, or through it depending on its position. The distraction of watching them go by was enough to carry me to the painting’s end point for all passengers who traveled along its wicked path. Here, the nebula towered over me, extending far in random directions. The spires within the nebula’s empty center appeared to me as dye does when dripped into water. Though, these spires had not moved since I entered their domain, as if separated from time itself.

Here in the center, the droning hum overwhelmed the last barriers of my mind. Finally, it had bored its way into the deepest recesses of my mind. With its intrusion came the drudging up of old memories. Subtle at first, enough to keep them at bay, but it was as if the spires allowed the droning hum all the energy it needed to collapse someone’s will. Within seconds my mind twisted and throbbed, futilely attempting to fight off the foreign invasion. Helpless in my floating state, I fell victim to the nebula’s power, allowing it to see all I had to offer.

The nostalgic humidity of a home I’ve never witnessed

The buzzing was no longer hollow with its message, for now the buzzing belonged to insects

“Some that flew, some that crawled, some huge, some small”

These raspy words whispered through tender, scaled lips

Something I had forgotten, before the overwhelming sadness took over

The roots are all connected, as plan as anyone can see

But here where you can smell the sap, where the swamp says I belong

The marshes that tell their stories to anyone who’ll listen

I abandoned this sanctuary against my own will, to a colder harsher realm

Who are all these faces? Smiling down at me?

Passing me by from all sides

All leading to you, the soft smell of petrichor

The sense of quietus pouring from your eyes

We can console one another here

The gift that demise has brought to me

With this illusion, my dreams of you can be real

This soothing hum, it compels us to finally heal

Please hold onto me, as you did before

Press into until were one

Don’t turn to ash this time

Don’t turn my throat to lead

Whisper to me, darling

That I have nothing to fear

As you fall away once more

Flesh into red sand, twisted into vapor

“Red… sand… vapor… climbing higher and higher… just as…” My mind reeled as it sought its way out of the nebula’s vice grip. Seeing him reduced to red ash reminding me of the spires that surrounded me, pulling me back into the painting’s reality.

I coughed hard into the vacuum, dry heaving with tears in my eyes as my head throbbed in pain. Somehow, I had escaped the visions thrusted upon me, even if by luck only. My breath came in slow gasps for a time, but I was not allowed much time to regain my composure. With gasps of breath, my eyes looked up to see yet another undead nightmare. An unmoving human skull of gargantuan size oppressively floated above me.

As if the nebulous clouds clung to it, the skull was dusted in red ash. Its entire being hung there in silence, unmoving without a jaw. The skull’s size was bigger than any surrounding star, dwarfing planets and moons all the same. To it, I was a mere speck, as ants are to man. Its eyes and nose were pitch black, no light escaping or exiting the three holes. Various bits of metal were embedded within the skull. Odd, intricate shapes were paired along with familiar screws. Some bits had replaced the skulls cheek bones, others had gifted the skull stiff eyebrows.

I noticed that the droning hum had finally stopped, and I was left to stare into the triad of voids before me. Desperate to find meaning, I stared almost eagerly into those empty sockets. Was it Sithis before me? Was this his realm, devoid of all sound and heat? No, this being was something else, as it noticeably gave off a different aura. Death himself is indifferent, but this being hovered with malicious intent.

Because the skull was the only thing around, I knew it had aid in my escape somehow. In hindsight, I knew I was just stowing away the insanity that would ensue when I’d eventually give up, but I couldn’t succumb to that so quickly. Knowing of nothing else, I called out to the rusted skull.

“Is this your domain I am trapped in!?” I exclaimed, hoping it could hear my query.

A moment passed, and then another. I gritted my teeth as my head grew heavy. My tongue had already dried out, as well as my nostrils. With no water around this vast sea I knew death was imminent. I looked about, trying not to think of it, possibly distracting myself for the last time. Alas, it was of no use. I wheezed out an exhale, beginning to stupidly waste my water supply in the form of tears. My hands balled into fists, the nails digging until piercing the skin. Desperation was now a bellowing beast within me, ramming against my rib cage.

“THE OTHERS HAD BLESSED ME WITH FEAR.” The voice was low, loud, and bounced around in all directions. My neck snapped up to see the skull had remained unchanged.

“A REALM THAT REFLECTS THEIR OWN, DESPERATE TO REPLACE THE IRREPLACEABLE.” It continued to boom, “SEALED AWAY HERE, CHAOS WITHOUT BOUNDS. I AM KNOWN AS BEDLAM.”

I had never heard of such a deity, and there were many I had heard of. I sniffled some and sighed, my desperation tamed for now. Perhaps an unknown Daedric Prince? He would have to be extremely old and obscure for that.

“How long have you been sealed here!?” I called out with a scratchy throat

“SIXTEEN IS THE NUMBER, REPEATING UNTO INFINITY.” A rather vague response.

“CHILD OF THE HIST. TELL ME, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF AS REALITY?” I narrowed my eyebrows at the question. A very repeated question for illusionists, yet one with many answers. What I didn’t expect was any question at all. I would expect a riddle or test, something that compelled the undead messenger to abduct me to solve. Yet Bedlam was asking of my opinion, not anything straight forward such as, “WHAT IS REALITY?” I eased a bit, there was no use in thinking of a correct answer.

“I understand reality when I am faced with something that is unobtainable. No matter my own strength, there are some things that will always be impossible. Those rules are what is defined as reality.” My words felt almost painful as I remembered what the nebula forced me to see.

“YOUR OWN STRENGTH HAS DEFIED YOUR DEFINED REALITY. IT HAS BROUGHT YOU TO ME, AN IMPOSSIBILITY. WHAT YOU THINK OF AS IMPOSSIBLE STRIKES CHAOS WITH CHILDLIKE CURIOUSITY.”

“Why have you appeared before me!? What do you see in me Bedlam!?” I called again to the skull, only wanting answers.

“I ONLY SENSED YOUR PRESENCE, AND WITH IT, I SENSED ALL CONSUMING TRAUMA AND TRAGEDY. COMPELLED, I SOUGHT TO SEEK OUT YOUR PASSION. I SEE NOW I HAVE FOUND YOU TOO EARLY IN YOUR TIME.”

“Too early…” I said to myself, wondering what he meant. Perhaps time truly didn’t exist here.

“THE SCENT OF FRESH INK,” Bedlam interrupted my thoughts, “SPILLING ONTO THE GROUND. SLOPPY AS ENTRAILS, SCENT AS STARK AS MY EXISTENCE. YOUR HYSTERIA IS NOT MANIFESTED HERE, ILLUSIONIST, FOR EVEN I FEAR WHAT IT BRINGS.” The voice passed through my body with those words, leaving my lungs cold and shoulders shivering. Bedlam spoke with the same conviction and authority as always, which made its words even more unnerving. Selfishly, I considered what it meant with its words. An insanity bestowed unto me that would cause the God of Chaos to fear. Maybe because Bedlam thrives on fear, fearing something or someone instead brings it the most pleasure.

I looked back up to the skull as it hovered in silence, the spires around it surrounding it like pillars in a throne room, “I am currently studying all there is to learn of my craft,” I began, my voice less of a war cry and more of a speech giver, “I know of the scent you speak of, Bedlam. I know of what form the scent takes, how it spills. You understand what he brings to me. You understand his message. What is he trying to say to me, Bedlam?”

“LIMBO IS THE ABODE, STUCK IN BETWEEN THE BLACK AND THE WHITE. THE BLACK SPILLS FROM MY EYES, THE WHITE IS PULLED FROM YOURS. YOUR PATH IS THE LINE THE SEPARATES THE TWO, MY HEART CRIES AT THE PATH YOU CHOOSE.” The response would have to suffice, as the skull began to turn to ash. An unknown breeze started at the top of its cranium, whisking it away particle by particle back into the nebula from which it came. I watched with tears in my eyes, and soon felt an ominous presence surrounding me. Its coldness stirred me to shiver, but I couldn’t look away at the disintegrating skull. The metal refused to be like the bone, choosing instead to float in place. Perhaps waiting for the next visitor.

Soon all of the skull was absorbed back into the nebula, the stirring cold only growing in intensity. Its snapping jaws clung to my torso, sapping the heat away. I knew this wasn’t it, however, something told me that Bedlam wouldn’t let me die here and now. I started to see my breath as my shivering grew more intense, my thoughts soon growing numb. I shut my eyes, trying to think of a good wine to warm my insides.

***

My body felt gravity once again, and my back felt sore from the sleeping position. The blasted cold still remained. A familiar candlelight focused into view, but it was no longer needed. The aurora borealis was out tonight. It paired with the twin moons allowed plentiful sight to those still awake. The basement I was in now had no ceiling, which allowed snow drifts to gather around the corners of the rectangular room. A still quietness remained, the wind above doing its best to convince me that nature was still alive and well this far north.

Unbound, I was free to get up and stretch my aching muscles. How I ended up here remains a mystery, as at the time study at the college was the only thing that enraptured my mind. If I ever went out to find something, I wouldn’t go alone.

As I climbed up the ladder out of the basement, the familiar damaged college came into view. I wasn’t too far at least, thank the Gods. Still, something compelled me to look up into the night sky one last time before retreating back to bed. I’m convinced that something was Bedlam, as when I did, I saw the smallest of red nebulas resting in between the folds of the aurora borealis.

Seeking solace from the cold, I walked with brisk caution across the dilapidated bridge that led up and into the college’s main campus. From there, it was a short, sheltered walk until I reached the dorms. The familiar mystical blue light lit up the quiet foyer. In the center of the room was a fountain without water. In stead the same blue light that lined the walls rise and fell in slow motion in the form of orbs. On that night, it reminded me of the night sky all too well.

A couple of flights of stone covered stairs led to a hallway. A long rug stretched from one end of the hall to the other, the left side of the room had glass covered lancet windows while the right side had 7 spaced apart doors leading to student rooms. At the end of the hallway led to my room, as my vigorous studies obtained me the title of Adept Mage for the year.

My room was circular with an alcove off to the side that contained a desk for study and scroll writing. The left side of the room, just as with the hallway, was adorned with lancet windows. These ones, however, could open as a door, leading to a small balcony. The bed was in the center, with a night table to its side for leisure clothing and journals to write in.

I sat on the bed’s left side, looking out the windows to see a familiar sight. Zulum-ni was hovering just outside, his eyes gouged out into black cores, the empty sockets dripping with ink. I saw him like this for a few months now. At first things were shocking, but as he did the same routine every night, I had seen myself grow used to his horrifying, ethereal presence.

“THE BLACK SPILLS FROM MY EYES.” Bedlam’s words repeated in my head, the context now as obvious as can be. I laid back onto the bed, avoiding his hollow gaze. Everything else Bedlam claimed Zulum-ni felt was much more obscure, but the skull made it clear that with time things would come to light. I’m just merely here to play my part in Bedlam’s chaotic little play.


End file.
